Letting go
by Sinners-desent
Summary: A one shot FrUK piece


"It's weird, isn't it?" The American lilt startled him out of his musings. For a moment, he considered ignoring the other, considering if he should continue to stare at the marble silhouetted against the darkening sun. However, this was only a moment, before he turned his head towards the blonde. A small resentment built, watching the other with narrowed eyes. The narrowed eyes were normally bright blue; however, they had been dimmed, looking older. Francis' mouth opened, yet no words came, so he simply shrugged, turning away.

"I mean…" The American continued, as if oblivious to the other's discomfort. Still, he could be simply attempting to maintain a semblance of normality. It was a futile attempt. The hurt part of Francis chose to believe the former, yet the logical side of him understood. "Last week he was so full of life. And now…" There was an audible gulp surrounding the cemetery. "And now all that's left is a tombstone and the corpse beneath it…" Alfred kicked a stone with his foot, voice thickening audibly. "I…" He cleared his throat, a sob catching. "We were gonna get married, you know?"

"I know…" Francis' lips quivered, gaze darkening. "He told me every day."

-

"Oi! Bloody frog!" Blue orbs flickered open, meeting greed. A smile flickered on his lips at the sound of the nickname, inhaling it, tasting it. "this is the third time this week that you've slept here. You're getting a cold.

"I know. Je suis desole." Arthur shook his head, smiling lightly.

"Idiot, cemeteries aren't nice places to sleep…" His head lifted, looking into the sky where rain clouds gathered like the lines on his forehead. A slight red bruise decorated the expanse of Arthur's neck. From Alfred, or Francis?

Francis' hand lifted, attempting to press his fingers against the bruise, as if by touching it he could determine who had placed it there. The Englishman caught the movement, stepping backwards. "I disappear if you touch me, Francis." His lips pressed together, watching the blue eyes fade of love and happiness once more.

"You always did, Art'ur."

The wineglass stood empty on the table, resting against the equally as empty wine bottle. A dim buzz from the television highlighted Romeo's lust for Juliet, her lips quivering in excitement as the stole away to marry.

"You watch some rubbish."

"Urg…! It was written by that 'great' play write of yours. You know, the one you won't shut up about. William, this and William, that. I surprised you didn't scream his name during sex." He had screamed Alfred's once. Francis' fingers clenched in his lap.

There was another pause in which Juliet cried, before Arthur spoke once again. "You didn't cry Francis."

Francis shrugged, sniffing lightly. "Romeo and Juliet isn't a sad story."

"You know what I meant."

"I…" His eyes lifted, watching Arthur pretend to watch the movie. But Arthur couldn't watch. Arthur wasn't here. "I just couldn't…"

"No, it's good." He laughed lightly, looking younger than he ever did whilst being alive. "It hurt when Alfred cried."

There was another pause as Romeo took his last dying breath. "You shouldn't have agreed. I would have asked eventually."

"No, you wouldn't have. I couldn't wait forever."

"I'm glad that you died."

"…I know."

There's a photograph beside the bed that lies flat against the surface of the glass, so that nobody can see. Alfred saw. Alfred hurt when he saw it, but he was also happy. It was nice seeing Arthur with Francis. So happy, so carefree. He'd laughed, noting the outfit, noting the blush on Arthur's cheeks, noticing the blatant love in his gaze.

He also saw the pillow thrown in the closet. Alfred lifted it, inhaling Arthur's cologne, a low sob catching, before placing it down. The pillow had been singed in one singular corner, as if somebody had attempted to burn it, yet couldn't bare to see it incinerate completely into dust.

The pillow is taken out sometimes, but not too much so that it looses his scent. It is taken out, hugged, inhaled, breathe upon while it's owner masturbates. Then it is thrown back in with little love and care, and the door locked securely.

Francis hasn't had sex in seven months. Francis hasn't eaten in three days. Francis hasn't left his home in two weeks. Francis hasn't cried for eight months. Francis hasn't spoken for five days.

Francis has drank four bottles of wine in three hours. Francis has been crying for two hours. Francis has thrown up two times. Francis has passed out on the floor hugging Arthur's pillow to his chest. Francis has woken up alone for the 204th time.

"I'm worried about you, Francis."

"Don't be, I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You're ill. Go…see a doctor or something."

"Art'ur…I was wrong."

"Wrong about what?"

"I should have asked you to marry me. I should have stopped sleeping around. I was wrong…I should have been with you."

"Well, it's all well and good saying that now, but-…"

"I think…Alfred's hurting more than I am."

"No, you don't. You're just saying that so that I…so that I…"

"Leave me, right?"

"I…I can't Francis. What do you think this is? You think that I'm a ghost? Don't be stupid. I'm coming back as a fairy when I die. I'm not real Francis. You're the one who has to let me go."

"You wouldn't be real as a fairy, either."

"I…You're ill Francis…Shit. You need a doctor. Get a bloody, fucking doctor, somebody!"

"Art'ur…I don't understand."

"Somebody get a fucking doctor!"

Arthur's body shook, clutching the cold hand in his own. He vaguely felt the doctor's hand on his back, vaguely heard the words "I'm sorry, there's nothing that we can do." But what he did hear was the life support machine, filling the room with it's long, vacant beep.


End file.
